Perpetual Motion Machine

Ever since I had jumped in the T-Bird and started racing down through Washington and Oregon and along the California coastal highway to put my final fight with Clem out of my mind, I’d been searching for some way to calm my combined anger and grief at the loss of that angelic, young free spirit who had made me forget these last two years that I now was on the wrong side of thirty-five no matter how much I pumped iron and groomed my body. I was grabbing at the last vestiges of my youth and the privilege of a vigorous, hard body, and I thought I had found that fountain of youth in Clem. I had gloried in his vibrancy and supple, lithe body, and he had seemed mesmerized by my blond good looks and hunky muscles and the mastery of my thick nine-inch sword. Our lovemaking helped me maintain the edge I needed to continue to compete at the pro level. I took Clem’s desertion of me for a younger man as a sign of what was to come with my professional football career, and, although I couldn’t admit it to myself, I was so afraid of the future that my hands trembled on the steering wheel. I kept on the move as if standing still would drag me down and accelerate the aging process.

I had always had my pick of young men to fuck. Clem had been my first attempt to settle down with one of them, and he had betrayed me and justified all my latent fears by walking out on me with that new football recruit straight off the university gridiron—the same recruit who seemed so greedily to be eyeing my position on the squad. The recruit had let me bring him home and fuck him and then, when he had exhausted me, he’d pumped Clem in my bed and stolen him right from underneath me.

Out of fear of going limp, I remained in perpetual motion for three days in my journey down the coast in the mid August sunshine, during which I stopped at every winery along the way to try to drown out the ringing in my ears. It was at the San Luis Vineyard on the Monterey coast that I encountered an angel. At first I’d thought he was a mere teenager, as small and lithe as he looked, but as he poured wine in the tasting room for a group of silver-haired senior citizens who had pulled up in a tourist van as I was tasting the first, light Chardonnay, I heard him tell them that he was a university student working on his off hours for his grandfather.

Our eyes met when he passed by me with the next bottle, and he saw and didn’t misinterpret the sudden interest I had taken in him. He was a beautiful boy, with dark Italian features, and he moved with the grace of a dancer. The tourists sipped and bought and left, and I remained at the tasting bar. The boy had slowed my servings so that I still had the desert wines to go when we were alone. He admitted that he recognized me as a professional football player and seemed star struck by my visit to his winery.

He asked me if I’d taken a tour of the wine-making process before, and I said that I had but that I might benefit from a refresher on how the grapes were actually grown and harvested if he knew of a good spot in the vineyard where that would be appropriate and if someone here were free to do a demonstration.

He gave me a searching look, called for someone to take over the pouring duties at the tasting bar, and, after pulling some bottles and food from a refrigerator and grabbing a blanket, invited me to follow him outside. As he glided out the door, he told me his name was Gabriel Caboronne and that he was the grandson of the San Luis Vineyard owner, Paulo Caboronne. I would have known that he was Gabriel—the angel Gabriel—even if he hadn’t told me his name.

I followed Gabriel away from the tasting room building and into the tall rows of wooden stakes supporting luscious green leaves and vines interspersed with moist clumps of purple and green grapes nearly bursting with rich juices. He stopped on the edge of a rock-walled terrace where we could look down across the Monterey coast to the pounding surf of the Pacific Ocean. My pulse was pounding as well, and even while standing here, Gabriel was in perpetual motion, expressing himself and his love of this coast with broad sweeps of his finely muscled arms.

It was a perfect morning, and I had the perfect guide beside me to show me the fundamentals of a grape harvest. If he had been around in Michelangelo’s day, he would have been the model for the statue of David. For all I knew, one of the youth’s ancestors had been the model. Despite his youthful appearance, his body was perfectly shaped and his features achingly handsome. His hair was dark and curly, and his fingers and the toes I could see clinging to his sandals were long and sensuous, a promise of length in other features as well. He wore only loose cotton trousers, having stripped off his T-shirt, with its winery logo, and tied it around his waist as soon as we had emerged into the sunlight. The skin of his body, tightly stretched on his musculature, was an olive brown, evidencing the many hours he spent in the sun on these hilly slopes and belying the long hours he had said he was forced to study in the university library when he only wanted to be up here working in the vineyard.

Gabriel turned to me and grinned, all pearly white teeth and sensuous lips, showing me in that one gesture just how much he loved these California coastal hills and their bounty of rich grapes. He gestured for me to follow him, and I watched the motion of his lithe body as I followed him into the vineyard terraces. It hit me once again that Gabriel had been in perpetual motion since the first time I had seen him. Even when he was standing still, his torso was languidly moving. His motion made my juices flow. I wanted to capture and harness that perpetual motion. I could feel myself getting hard, and the sign of vigor gave me a thrill.

I loved watching him move. I felt myself melting into him and, and I ached to feed on his youth, to absorb it, to fuck him hard and deep until we were one fine-tooled motion machine—to ram my nine thick inches far up his young and tender ass repeatedly and to hear him groan and moan for me. I wanted him as I had wanted Clem, if not more.

When Gabriel halted, deep down the corridors of the grapevine support fences, I stripped off the gauzy white shirt that had loosely covered my torso, and we worked hard, side by side, for nearly an hour. Gabriel showing me which grapes were begging to be plucked and how to harvest them without bruising their tender skins. And all the time his torso was in perpetual motion, moving like a master dancer.

The sun hadn’t reached its zenith when Gabriel called for a respite. He fanned out a blanket on the ground under a tree, where a section of the vineyard made way for an olive orchard, and began unpacking the basket he had filled before we had come out into the sunlight. There were several bottles of wine, uncorked, ready for tasting. With a merry laugh, Gabriel took one of these and handed me the other one. He leaned against a tree and saluted me with the bottle before drinking directly from it in a long gulp. He looked entirely too young to be taking deep swigs from a wine bottle, I thought. Even leaning against the tree, his body was in languid motion.

I saluted him back and took a long drink from the bottle he’d given me. The wine was refreshing and smooth, with a slight kick to it at the end—just the thing to top an hour of hard work in the fields.

Gabriel was grinning at me, swaying his torso, and I ached for him. But he looked oh so young.

I couldn’t help myself. “Just how old are you, Gabriel?” I asked in a scratchy voice, having difficulty broaching the subject.

“Old enough, Skeeter,” he said and flashed me that beautiful smile again.

“Old enough?” I asked. “You know what I was asking?” I asked with guarded hope. “And why?”

“Of course, Skeeter. I saw it in your eyes at the tasting bar. If you had not asked to come to the fields with me, I would have asked you to come myself. I was thrilled when I saw in your eyes that you desired me.”

“Come away from that tree, Gabriel,” I said huskily. “Come over here to me.”

“It’s cool here under the tree, Skeeter,” he answered, asserting himself, showing me some backbone. “I am hot; I need to be cooled down.”

“You need to be cooled down?” I responded. And then, impulsively, I walked over to him and upended the wine bottle in front of his face, watching the dark red fluid cascading down his lithe, undulating torso and staining his cotton trousers and plastering them to his pelvis. I could see that it was true about long sensuous fingers and toes. He had a long cock curled up in that basket of his, the front of his trousers now translucent thanks to the flowing red wine.

At first Gabriel looked shocked, and then he laughed merrily and upended his own bottle of wine above my much broader, more heavily muscled chest.

I pushed him roughly against the olive tree where its two main branches split and brutally attacked his full-bodied lips with mine. He answered my kiss, showing me that he knew a thing or two about the technique himself. I pulled away in surprise. But his eyes were still heavy with lust. He wanted this. My mouth hungrily went to his chest and found his wine-cooled nipples. A hand went to his crotch and almost lifted his lithe little body off the ground as I cupped his long, unfolding dick in my searching hands. I was stripping his trousers off his legs as my tongue and lips made their wine-tasting journey down his chest and belly, and he was exposed and ready for me when my mouth reached his long, thin rod. He leaned back into the crook of the olive tree, his torso still in swaying motion, and sighed and moaned for me, as I took possession of his cock and sucked him to ejaculation.

When I stood, he started to lick the wine off my chest and belly as well, intending to do for me what I’d done for him, but I wanted to prolong the experience. I took him by the hand and led him over to the spread blanket, warming in the olive tree-branch dappled sunlight of the strong California sun. I stripped off my wet pants, hearing the intake of his breath when he saw how well-endowed I was, and sat down on the blanket, my legs stretched out in front of me. I then pulled him down close beside me. His hips were next to mine, but I pulled his torso over to where his shoulder blades nestled against my chest and the curly black hair on top of his head was tickling me under my chin. I leaned over and plucked a long strand of oat grass that had found life between the rows of the vine stands. I encircled his waist with one arm, my palm fanned out on his lower belly, and, with the other hand, I took the long, thick strand of grass and ran it across Gabriel’s chest and thighs and cock and balls. The perpetual undulating motion of his torso and legs matched the tracings of the grass on his beautiful little body, and, at length, with deep sighs, he turned his face to me and we kissed deeply, our tongues finding each other, our sweet, wine-infused juices joining together.

While we kissed, I moved one of his thighs up until it was on top of mine. The nearness of him was intoxicating, and the motion of his body against the strand of grass was mesmerizing. I pulled him farther up into my lap until he was on top of me, sitting in my lap. My long, hard, thick cock was running up the small of his back, telling him precisely what I wanted and that I couldn’t wait much longer before I got it.

His back was in languid motion as well, so he was making love to my cock, rubbing the small of his back across it. He was making humming noises, and his body was trembling as well as moving. I knew that he wanted me too.

He raised his arm around the back of my neck, bringing my lips back to his. We kissed tenderly, and then he looked deeply into my eyes.

“Now? Will you fuck me now? Please.” He asked. “You need not worry. I’m not as young and inexperienced as you might think.”

“Yes, now,” I said huskily.

Gabriel then drew his calves up under his thighs, keeping my pelvis between them. He reached behind him and found my cock, which was a little hard to miss, and then raised his hips up, with his weight on his knees, and just backed his asshole onto my cock.

Surprisingly, he had no problem at entry, even though I was quite large and thick, and I glided all the way in to the hilt. Then, he just started his hips in an undulating rhythm above me, stroking in and out above me, alternating with rotations of his hips, fucking himself on my throbbing cock. The sensation was phenomenal. I was mining him deep, and his ass canal walls, like his torso, were in perpetual motion, making love to my cock in wave after wave of caressing as it churned inside him.

I was loving this, but I wanted to still his body, to transfer his vigor and motion to me. I slowly rolled him so that he was belly down on the blanket, and I was covering him completely from above, my thighs holding his thighs close between them, my nipples gouging into his shoulder blades, my arms stretched on top of his, my fingers entwined with his, my pelvis churning around on his plump butt cheeks.

His torso quieted down, stopped its perpetual motion, but his hips were still in motion, a little elevated and rotating in countermotion to my downward stroking deep inside him with my pulsating cock. The blanket had bunched up so that our pelvises were directly atop the rich soil of the coastal hillside. Gabriel’s hard dick was stroking along the surface of the mossy grass, fucking the fertile earth of California.

I could feel myself ready to cum. I pulled my cock out so that the head was just beyond the ring near the opening to his asshole, and I found his prostrate with the tip of the head and rubbed back and forth. He was moaning and groaning especially loud now, and I felt him tense and shoot his load in the grass, spreading his semen on the land that had been worked by generations of Caboronnes, blessing the grape harvest in a ritual that just might have been part of tradition in centuries past. I ground his pelvis into the grass then, with a strong deep thrust of my cock down into the center of him, where I injected spouting after spouting of good old All-American running back semen into the ass of the fine old Caboronne line, doing a little blessing of the harvest myself.

I held him pinned to the ground with my long, thick stake, waiting and hoping. He gave a long, lingering sigh, and I felt all of the tension drain out of him, leaving him at complete peace, and, in the process, filling me with renewed vitality.

We motored back up the Pacific coast in my T-Bird and were settled in my Seattle apartment and keeping up with a vigorous fuck routine in plenty of time for my confidence on the gridiron and in bed to be bolstered before the season opened. I had staved off the future—had retained my perpetual motion edge—at least for this season.